


Midday

by NeverAndAlways



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, Doctor John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, M/M, Mpreg, Not Beta Read, Pregnant Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Waterbirth, mildly graphic birth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-28 01:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8424919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverAndAlways/pseuds/NeverAndAlways
Summary: Sequel to 'Just Before Dawn' (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3728185)





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson stands at the front door, out of the way of the dripping downspout, rifling through his pockets. He's looking for his keys. They were right _here_ , where did he-?

"Dad?" his daughter, Anya, elbows him gently in the side. He turns to look at her; she holds up the keys, and unlocks the door before he can say anything.

The flat is quiet and warm and blessedly dry. And it smells faintly of soup. Mrs. Hudson must be cooking again. John and Anya kick off their shoes and peel off their raincoats, and Anya shoulders her backpack onto the floor. Then they head for the stairs.

"It's just us," John calls as they enter the living room. There's no answer. Sherlock's definitely still home - he counts no fewer than five empty or half-finished cups of tea strewn around the room. But there's no sign of him.

"Papa?" calls Anya. Faintly, they hear a response. There's something about the sound that gets John's attention, but he can't put his finger on it. He and Anya exchange glances.

"Why don't you stay down here." he says. Anya - very much the teenager - shrugs and immediately plops herself down on the couch with her phone. She seems completely unconcerned with what's going on upstairs.

The stairs creak loudly under John's feet as he climbs. "Sherlock?" he calls, a little quieter this time.

"Hello, John."

The detective himself emerges from the bathroom. Pregnancy has softened a lot of his hard angles, although the belly still seems out of place on such a lanky body. He holds it in a preoccupied sort of way as he asks, a little irritably, "Why did you call multiple times? You knew I was still home."

"You didn't answer the first time." John soothes.

"I was...preoccupied."

"Contraction?"

Sherlock makes an affirmative sound and shuffles past John. "Eleven minutes."

"That's good." John takes a look around. "I see you've been busy." the bed is covered with supplies: blankets, water bottles, string, John's medical bag. Sherlock brushes past him again with a shrug and adds a pair of pajamas to the collection.

"I'd rather not be unprepared this time." he says matter-of-factly.

John smiles. "No, I think you've got it covered." his boyfriend smirks. Really, he should be resting, but you try making Sherlock Holmes do something he doesn't want to do.

"Is Anya still downstairs?" Sherlock abruptly changes the subject.

"Yeah, why?"

The detective gives him an odd look. "You haven't told her, have you?"

John rolls his eyes. "I don't understand why you want to keep her in the dark on this."

"John..."

"No, I haven't told her. But for Christ's sake, Sherlock, she's 13. She can handle it."

"I'm not keeping her in the dark, I only-"

"Dad?"

John turns around. Anya is standing in the hallway just outside, studying the scene with a very Sherlock-esque look. He tries to put on a smile. "Hi, honey. You need something?"

"What's going on...?"

"Nothing. Papa and I are just talking."

Another very Sherlock-esque look. "No you're not. You never 'talk' this quietly. And I heard my name." she folds her arms. "What are you talking about?"

John looks at his boyfriend. "You were saying?" he asks mildly.

Sherlock sighs. Then, with all of his usual tact and grace, he says simply, "I'm in labor, Anya."

This catches her by surprise. Her arms fall to her sides; her eyes widen slightly. "...Oh." ever since Sherlock announced this second pregnancy, Anya's been excited but cautious. Now the reality of it seems to have hit her all at once. Her eyes flick down to Sherlock's belly, then back up. "Wait, you mean the baby's coming? Like...right now?"

"Well, not right this minute. But probably by tonight, yes."

"Holy shit."

"Anya. Language, please." says John. She doesn't seem to hear. She takes a step back from the doorway.

"Okay, uh. Awesome." all that the bravado she had a moment ago is gone. "I'm gonna-" she gestures in the direction of her room. Then, without another word, she disappears.

"Anya, wait -" John begins, a moment too late. He stops. He drags a hand through his hair. "That went well, don't you think?" there's sarcasm practically dripping from his words. But no answer. He turns around. "Sherlock?" his boyfriend is hunched over the bed, face flushed and eyes closed, breathing hard. "Contraction?"

"Mm-hmm." Sherlock swears. "It's all in my back..."

Without a word, John moves in. Gently, almost tentatively, he presses his hands into the small of Sherlock's back. Sherlock hisses in discomfort at first, but quickly relaxes into it.

He sighs as the contraction tapers off. "I hate this."

"I know, love." John leans forward and plants one small kiss between the detective's shoulderblades. "It'll be over sooner than you think."

^^^


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock gets bored of the bedroom after a while and moves downstairs, with John by his side as always. Mrs. Hudson comes up with good wishes and bowls of soup for them both. Sherlock takes a few spoonfuls of his, mostly to be polite - it's good soup, though, tart and lemony - then leaves it on the counter and resumes his pacing.

It's still raining, or trying to. The gutters trickle onto the street below. Sherlock stands at the window between contractions and watches. He's progressing slowly but steadily; there's a calmness about him that John rarely sees. He doesn't fidget. He barely talks. It's almost unnerving.

Eventually he moves to the sofa. He plants himself there as though he'll never be moved, with his long legs stretched out and his head resting on the back. John takes this as his okay to relax somewhat; he grabs a book from the shelf and is just settling into the armchair when he hears the stairs creak. He and Sherlock look toward the sound.

It's Anya. She looks shyly at her parents and asks, "Can I...?"

"Come on in." says John.

Anya descends the last few stairs into the room. She's changed out of her school clothes and into pajamas, and has a sketchbook tucked under her arm. She goes to sit on the couch, realizes it's occupied, and hesitates. Sherlock pats the space beside him.

"You can sit down, goose. I don't bite." he says, with a fondness he reserves only for her and John. Anya quirks a smile and does just that, folding her gangly teenagers' legs underneath herself. She flips through her sketchbook for a page to draw on; Sherlock lets his head fall back once more; John opens his book.

Silence.

Anya looks up. "It's so quiet," she remarks, as though it just dawned on her. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I mean, I guess I expected it to be more...dramatic."

John laughs lightly. "Things don't always happen like they do on TV, love. Most of labor is just waiting." he turns a page. "And anyway, the dramatic part isn't for a while yet."

"Oh."

More silence. A car horn honks in the distance. The antelope skull - that ugly old thing Sherlock has never bothered to take down - leers at them from the wall.

"Was it l...li..." Anya starts to ask. Her sentence grinds to a halt and she grapples with it for a moment. Sherlock's childhood stutter shows itself in her every now and again. She stops, tries again. "Was it li-like this when you had me?"

"All births are more or less the same." groans Sherlock, one hand over his eyes.

John gives his boyfriend a sidelong look. Still snarky, even in labor. He turns his attention back to Anya and says, "Mostly. Except you arrived in the wee hours of the morning. Kept us up all night." he smiles a little, remembering. And then, because he can't resist teasing, he adds, "and you were the _ugliest_ baby I have ever seen."

" _Dad!_ " Anya pretends to be scandalized, although the giggling doesn't help matters.

Suddenly they're both interrupted by a groan. Sherlock has both hands on his belly; his face is tight and drawn with pain. Anya stares. She's only ever seen him calm and collected, she doesn't know what to do with this side of him.

John gets to his feet. "Sherlock?"

"Contraction." Sherlock grits through clenched teeth. "Bad one. Don't touch me," he adds as John reaches for him. So John stands back, and he and Anya just watch until it's over.

Sherlock slowly relaxes. He looks at his boyfriend. He looks at his daughter. To John, he says "Seven minutes." to Anya, with the smallest of smiles, "I'm alright, love." he sighs the last of the tension away and gently rumples her hair. "There's that drama you mentioned."

 

^^^

 

Hours pass.

Sherlock's still progressing, but just slowly enough to make him impatient. He walks around the flat for a while, but that gets boring quickly. So instead he returns to the living room. John brings his exercise ball down from the bedroom, and Sherlock plants himself upon it. He rocks back and forth, just breathing, and chats with Anya, who's now stretched out on the couch.

And he's still quiet.

Sherlock is not a quiet man by nature, not by any means. So as the contractions come and go with barely a whimper, John finds it hard not to be alarmed. But then, Sherlock has always been full of surprises.

Seven minutes

 

to five

 

to three

 

to nearly two.

Returning from the kitchen with a mug of tea, it occurs to John that the soft creaking of the exercise ball has stopped. He peeks into the room. Sherlock is still sitting on the ball, but now his upper half is leaned over onto the coffee table, his head resting on his arms. Even from the doorway, John can see his face is screwed up with pain. He abandons his tea on the counter and goes to his boyfriend's side.

"Sherlock?"

A muffled groan.

"Easy, you're alright." John soothes. He can see Anya watching from the couch, nervous and unsure. Sherlock lifts his head. "Talk to me. What do you need?"

"Upstairs." Sherlock pants. That's where all their supplies are, where they planned for it to happen.

"You got it." John helps him to his feet. They make their way over to the stairs, and then he pauses. "Anya?" he says gently. "I'll be right back, okay?" she nods.

They have to stop for a contraction halfway up the stairs, and again in the bedroom. Once Sherlock is settled on the bed, John leans down so they're eye-to-eye. He knows his boyfriend; when Sherlock's focused on something, it can be hard to bring him out of it.

"Sherlock, love. Look at me." the detective lifts his gaze, looking up at John through a scatter of dark curls. "I need to go talk to Anya. Will you be okay up here for a minute?"

Sherlock blows a wayward curl out of his eye and grumbles, "I'll be fine."

"Okay. Just yell if you need me."

Anya is right where they left her, perched on the edge of the couch. She looks rattled. John knocks softly on the wall, and her head snaps up.

"Is he okay?" she asks, beating John to the punch. John smiles.

"He's alright, goose." he assures her. "But how are _you_ doing?"

His daughter shrugs. The language of teenagers everywhere. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

This time she doesn't answer. Doesn't meet his gaze, either. She shrugs again, less convincingly, and looks down at the floor.

Thought so.

John sighs. He takes a few steps toward her and opens his arms. "Hey." he says gently. "C'mere."

Anya steps forward and lets herself be hugged. That's an uncommon thing nowadays. John presses a kiss to her hair. "It's gonna be okay," he murmurs. "This is just part of the process. But you can always go to your grandma and granddad's if it's too much for you. I'll give you a call when it's all over."

"I'll be okay." she replies. Sounds like she's trying to convince them both.

"Are you sure? It gets a lot less pretty from here, and I don't-"

"Dad." Anya pulls away long enough to give him a sharp look. "I read Gray's Anatomy when I was eight. I know how it works."

John has to stifle a laugh. "Alright. If you're sure. Why don't you put on a movie, then, it might be a nice distraction." Anya steps back out of the hug, looking like she isn't quite sure. But she gives him a little smile anyway.

Before either one can say anything more, there's a muffled groan from upstairs, and Sherlock calls out for John. They both look toward it. Then Anya looks at John.

"I guess that's my cue." he tries to sound cheerful as he heads back toward the stairs. "You sure you're okay?"

" _Dad._ "

"Alright, alright." John climbs the first step. Then he pauses. He turns around. "Oh - Anya? One more thing."

"What?" she looks away from the shelf of DVDs, looking annoyed as only a thirteen-year-old can.

"I love you."

A pause.

"Love you too, Dad."

John smiles as he climbs the stairs.

 

oOo


	3. Chapter 3

"John?" Sherlock's voice drifts in from the bedroom, tight with pain.

"Almost done." his boyfriend calls back.

John turns off the bathtub faucet. He swirls his other hand in the water, testing it one last time, before he stands up. Then he strides out of the bathroom, drying his hand on his shirt as he goes.

"Alright, we're good to go."

He crosses the room. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed when he left; now he's in a low squat beside it. All John can see of him is his bare arms - he took off his shirt a while ago - and a mess of curls. The detective's been holding up pretty well, all things considered, but the last couple hours have been hard on him. John crouches, close enough to be in his line of sight, and puts a hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock lifts his head slightly.

"Bath's ready for you." he says again. Without a word, Sherlock levers himself to his feet. It looks like a Herculean effort. Instinct - and years of training - kicks in and John puts a hand out to support him. Sherlock huffs annoyance at this, but doesn't try to dislodge him.

Trekking across the bedroom seems to take an age. And they're only halfway there when Sherlock suddenly grabs John's arm in a vice grip. John doesn't even have to ask now. He can almost see the contraction slamming into Sherlock. He slings an arm around behind him to help lower him to the floor.

" _Fuck_." Sherlock spits out the word like a bad taste. He's on all fours now, and shaking. John moves a hand to the detective's lower back and presses.

"Breathe, Sherlock, come on."

"I can't-"

"Just relax-"

Sherlock interrupts them both with a gasp. He rises up onto his knees. There's a pink-tinged puddle growing on the carpet between them. "Oh, for fuck's sake." he pants. "Water broke."

"That's alright," John soothes. "I'll take care of it. Let's get you into the bath first."

Sherlock pulls off his now-sodden pajama pants as soon as they get to the bathroom. The counter is lined with the supplies he put together earlier, plus a few more; he spares them only a cursory glance. The bathtub draws him in like a magnet. With John's help, he climbs into the warm water and drapes himself over the edge of the tub. And just in time, too: a contraction hits him moments later. He pants and moans his way through it while John takes a towel and goes to clean up the floor.

John keeps an anxious eye on his boyfriend. He's finding it hard to separate Doctor Watson and John. While Doctor Watson supplies him with facts and procedures, the rest of him just sees his boyfriend in pain and hates that he can't make it better. He strips down to his shorts and climbs into the bathtub as Sherlock gears up for another contraction. They're coming faster now.

The tub is easily big enough for both of them. Water sloshes up the sides as John slips in to sit behind Sherlock.

"Is this okay?" he checks. He needn't have asked; Sherlock melts back into him almost immediately.

"It's fine." Sherlock breathes. Then he grimaces. "Christ, another one..."

"Just breathe through it. You're doing fine." John slips his arms under Sherlock's to hold him steady; the detective's hands wrap around his wrists. "You're almost fully dilated," John continues, although he knows Sherlock's not listening, "you should be ready to push anytime now."

"Not yet." Sherlock pants as the contraction releases its hold. "Baby's taking its time." his head lolls back against John's shoulder. "It can bloody well hurry up, though." he smirks.

This time John doesn't answer. He just smiles, and presses a kiss to his boyfriend's hair. And they wait.

 

^^^

 

It's sunset. The weak grayish light outside is fading to blue, and the clouds to black. Streetlamps flicker into life. Windows light up with people arriving home for the evening. Even 221b looks peaceful - at least from the outside.

Anya looks up from her movie as a groan cuts through the flat. It makes her skin crawl. Is it supposed to take this long? What if something's wrong? She can hear her dad's voice, faintly, and it's comforting. He sounds calm, so everything must be okay. At least that's what she's telling herself. She turns back to her sketchbook. The vine-and-flower design she started in the corner has turned into something spiky. Hmm. Trying to focus on her work, Anya puts pen to paper, draws a line - another cry from upstairs. She winces. This isn't working.

With a sigh, Anya stands up. She turns off the movie. She gathers her pencil, pen, and sketchbook. And with one last glance back, she heads downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson's flat is quiet; there's still a lingering smell of soup. Anya pushes the door open a little, then thinks better of it and knocks instead.

"Mrs. Hudson?" she calls as loudly as she dares. There's a long pause. Then a shuffling comes down the hallway, and the landlady appears. She's clad in pajamas and a bathrobe, with a book under one arm and a cup of tea in her hand.

"Anya?" she frowns in concern. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I just...kind of." Anya flounders, suddenly shy. She can feel the stutter creeping up on her. "I mean. Papa's in labor, an-and I don't...I can't-"

Mrs. Hudson nods and smiles. "I understand. I wondered if I would see you this evening." she holds out her free hand. "Come on in, dear. Let's get you some tea."

 

^^^

 

They've been in the bath for an hour and a half now. The water's been reheated twice. Sherlock is tense and stiff as a board, despite John's efforts to get him to relax. His feet are propped up on the sides of the tub. One hand rests on either side of his belly, with John's hands on top of them.

John sits behind him, motionless. His lips move silently as he counts. Just as he reaches ten, Sherlock lets out a long, whooshing breath that seems to confirm his suspicions. He sits up, leans forward a bit.

"Sherlock."

No answer.

"Earth to Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock grunts acknowledgement, if you can call that an answer.

"You're bearing down."

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you want to change positions?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He's completely internal now. As the next contraction comes over him, he draws his knees back toward his chest and bears down with a deep, guttural groan. John resumes his counting.

"...Seven, eight, nine, ten. That's good, just relax now."

Sherlock takes a few breaths and pants, "I know what I'm doing."

"I know you do." John soothes.

"Then let me...oh fuck-" Sherlock suddenly pitches forward, sloshing water over the side of the tub, and pushes hard. "It's coming fast, John, it - _fuck_ -" he huffs out a breath, grits his teeth. "John...!"

"Easy, easy. You're alright."

But Sherlock is too far gone. He pushes from the start of the contraction all the way through to the end without even stopping for breath, until his face is red and his hands shake on the rim of the tub.

"Sherlock, stop, you've got to breathe. **Sherlock**." John rubs a hand up and down his boyfriend's side to get his attention. Sherlock does stop, but only when the contraction is over. He falls back against John and gasps for breath.

"Sorry...sorry, I couldn't..." he trails off.

"That's alright. Just remember to breathe on the next one."

Sherlock reaches down under the water, below the curve of his belly and between his legs. He lets out a breath of what might be relief before taking another lungful for the next contraction. Then he pushes again, groaning low in the back of his throat.

It takes nearly half an hour more of this to make any further progress. Sherlock stops abruptly at the end of a contraction and keens, high and pained.

"Crowning." he gasps. His hand dips down underwater again, and his breath hitches. "I feel it."

"That's good, Sherlock, you're doing so well. Nearly there." John reaches out, hooks his hands over Sherlock's knees, and pulls them gently back. "I've got you. Just focus on pushing."

If Sherlock heard, he's too deep in his head to answer. He keeps his hand under the water while he pushes, supporting the baby's head as it comes. When it slips free, he relaxes, but only for a moment. John kisses his temple.

Another contraction. Then another. Sherlock barely pushes. His body does the work for him. He grimaces his way through them, breathing hard, as the shoulders turn. Then he leans forward, cramped around his belly, and takes gentle hold of the baby. He pushes again. The silence in the room stretches and stretches and then, with a cry of relief, he's lifting a wet and wrinkled newborn out of the water onto his chest.

John laughs. "Oh my god, Sherlock. Oh my god, you did it."

"Hand me a towel." says Sherlock, brisk as always, and grabs it himself. He towels the baby off, cleans its face, drapes the towel over it.

A minute passes. The baby takes a gurgling breath, coughs, and starts to cry. The sound ricochets off the tiled walls, and John and Sherlock think it's one of the most beautiful sounds they've ever heard.

"There you are." Sherlock grins. He scoots the baby higher on his chest, gathers it close. He turns his grin to John. "Another girl."

The grin is infectious. "I guess 'Hamish' is out of the question, then."

"Mm." Sherlock's still breathing hard. "June?"

"June." John repeats the name. "I like it."

"Then June it is." Sherlock puts one hand on her tiny back. "Welcome to the family, June."

 

^^^

 

"Anya. Wake up, honey."

Anya reluctantly opens her eyes. In that moment of sleepy amnesia, she squints around, trying to figure out where she is.

A light turns on. She's in Mrs. Hudson's living room, on the sofa, under a quilt. There's someone standing over her.

"Dad?" she sits up. "What time is it?"

"Half-past nine," says Mrs. Hudson, closing the curtains. "You're a sister now."

Wide-eyed, Anya turns back to her dad. He nods, and gestures towars the door.

"C'mon. I'll introduce you." he says with a smile.

^^^

Sherlock is just wrapping little June in a blanket when they enter the bedroom. The detective himself has changed into pajamas.

John walks in with Anya close behind. Sherlock turns around; his grin is bright, but a little tired around the edges. He pulls his eldest daughter into a hug - and she hugs him right back.

"I'm sorry I scared you, love." his voice is a little rough. Maybe from yelling, maybe emotion. Or both.

"I'm okay." hers is muffled in the fabric of his shirt. She pulls away. On the bed, June is doing her best impression of a caterpillar. Anya studies her with another Sherlock-esque look.

Sherlock picks up the baby. "This is June." he says to Anya. "Your sister."

"Sister?" Anya looks at June, half-asleep in their father's arms. "I thought it was going to be a boy."

"So did we." says John.

Anya snorts with amusement. "Aren't you supposed to be good at deduction, Papa?" she teases.

"Not all the time."

She shrugs, for lack of anything better to say, and leans in to give her sister a kiss on the forehead. "Welcome to the world, June." she whispers. "I hope you realize what a weird family you're getting yourself into."

Sherlock smiles. For all that he and John had worried about the baby - and Anya - growing up in a world like theirs, he's starting to realize he needn't have feared.

His daughters are Holmeses _and_ Watsons. They're going to be just fine.

 

oO0Oo

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked the story, please leave a message - I'd love to hear from you!


End file.
